


one foot in front of the other

by buckydarling



Category: Captain America (Movies)
Genre: Bucky Barnes Remembers, Bucky recovering, Captain America: Civil War (Movie) Spoilers, IDGAF, Major Spoilers, Minor spoilers for Captain America: Civil War, Not Captain America: Civil War (Movie) Compliant, Other, also credit to ladyamurica, bucky discovers his love for steve, bucky discovers modern fashion, bucky likes colorful sharpies, he really just wants some plums, i don't know what direction this is going in yet, i mean technically it's movie compliant?, it just goes beyoooond it, jk about what i said earlier, jk major spoilers probably, likee, my headcanon, okay forget earlier, these tags are a fuckin wreck, way beyond
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-05-22
Updated: 2016-05-22
Packaged: 2018-06-09 23:07:25
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,787
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6927916
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/buckydarling/pseuds/buckydarling
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Whipping around, you remember that your backpack is still at the apartment, a whole three blocks away. What were you thinking, leaving without it? You won't make it back in time -- the memory will be almost gone by then, dull around the edges, faded like a painting that's been under bright lights for too long. Curse this mind of yours, you think, curse it for being so unused and manipulated! You're patching it up pretty well, but memories can still slip through, like water through a colander. You have a pen, though, because oh, the irony; of course you have a pen. You put your head in your hands, staring at the asphalt --  </p><p>You look at the white shoes on sale proudly in the window, and an incredibly ridiculous idea begins to form in your mind.</p>
            </blockquote>





	one foot in front of the other

**Author's Note:**

> So, ladyamurica (tumblr) and I were chatting and she brought up a headcanon that Bucky probably wears converse. It evolved into what is now this... thing. *throws it at you* take it and have fun. 
> 
> Featuring additional buckysam scenes because we honestly didn't get enough of this pair being little shits in CACW.
> 
> *SPOILERS FOR CAPTAIN AMERICA: CIVIL WAR*

The shoes are not your first choice, that's for sure. 

They're on a pedestal in a gleaming shop window on the streets of Bucharest, one with thousands of twinkling lights and glaring banners. CONVERSE ON t SALE! They shout at you, and the shoes spin on their pedestals (they fucking _spin_ , and it almost makes you laugh, what a far cry this is from what little you remember of your time in Brooklyn.) You look down at your basic black sneakers, practically falling apart, and shrug internally. They'll hold up for a few more weeks if you're careful, and you need money for groceries, anyway. It's unique, and enjoyable, almost; a new experience, reminding yourself that you need to eat, sleep, drink a few glasses of water a day, pay the electricity bill. It feels silly, but every time you carry those bags out of the little grocery on the corner, Hydra seems to get farther and farther away. 

You look up from where you're standing on the corner of the street and gaze at all the light displays decorating the buildings around you. It's December, the chilly air biting at your nose and turning it red, your still-long hair keeping the back of your neck warm. It's almost Christmas. You smile, a little to yourself (and this, too, is so unfamiliar, to smile) and remember _Christmas, and the tree in_ _Rockerfeller_ _Center, and Steve insisting that you go see it anyway, even though he'd get a cough and be sick on Christmas Morning_ \--  

A memory. That's a new one. You go to grab your notebooks, to whip one out and write it down-- 

You freeze, because _the backpack's not there._  

Whipping around, you remember that your backpack is still at the apartment, a whole three blocks away. What were you thinking, leaving without it? You won't make it back in time -- the memory will be almost gone by then, dull around the edges, faded like a painting that's been under bright lights for too long. Curse this mind of yours, you think, curse it for being so unused and manipulated! You're patching it up pretty well, but memories can still slip through, like water through a colander. You have a pen, though, because _oh_ , the irony; of course you have a pen. You put your head in your hands, staring at the asphalt --  

You look at the white shoes on sale proudly in the window, and an incredibly ridiculous idea begins to form in your mind. 

Dashing frantically into the shop, you pull your wallet out and grab the shoes on your way to the register, pushing through the crowds of frantic shoppers and practically slamming the box down in front of the cashier. "How much?" you ask hurriedly in smooth Romanian, making desperate eye contact with the sales girl, playing that image of Steve in front of the Christmas tree over and over in your mind as you wait.  

"160 leu," she says back, smoothly and efficiently ringing them up for you and talking your wads of cash. "Have a good day, sir --" 

You're out the door before she can finish, dashing to a quiet corner table outside a closed cafe and whipping the left shoe out of the box and slapping it down on the surface.  Grabbing the pen, you scribble on the white canvas near the strange rubber toe.  

 _Rockerfeller_ _Center. Christmas Tree. Steve. Coat was too big. Laughing. Lights were gorgeous. You were worried that Steve would be sick. He was okay._  

The pen bleeds a litte more than you'd like, but it's okay, and now you can write it in your notebook when you get back to the apartment and permanantly strap that stupid backpack to you so that you never leave without it again. 

And then there are the shoes themselves. 

You stare at them, a bit annoyed; you weren't planning on buying them in the first place, but now you have them, and you needed new shoes anyway. They're not what you would have chosen and they certainly don't look ideal for running, but there _are_ a lot of people in Bucharest wearing the same style. Maybe it'll help you blend in... 

You toss your old shoes in a trash can and recycle the box, and walk back to your apartment wearing the new ones and a strange sense of independence. Hydra would've never had you wearing something like these. 

___________________________________________________________________________________ 

It's strange, but the shoes are growing on you. Mostly because they're easier to remember than a notebook when you leave the house. (Not that you abandon the notebooks, of course. Notebooks are for newspaper clippings and pictures and long stories; the notebooks help you feel more organized. But the shoes are nice, too.) 

You buy a pack of rainbow pens and make a habit of sticking a few on your shoe or in your hair before you leave the house, because the memories come more frequently now, and you don't always have the backpack with you when they do. Even when you're in your apartment, it helps to have them around, to scribble down notes. 

Washing the plates. _Steve's mother washed dishes with a checked rag. Sarah Rogers. You loved her a lot. She took care of Steve when you couldn't._  

The market in Bucharest. _A farmer's market in France during the war. Potato salesgirl with blonde hair flirted with the soldiers. You had a new uniform on._  

Buying vanilla extract. _Vanilla, a swipe behind Steve's ears and yours when you didn't have money to pay the bills and couldn't shower._  

It feels reassuring, too, to carry those memories around with you; they feel like an anchor, a shield (and wow, isn't that ironic, a shield), something to keep you in this world and not the world of the Asset. The Winter Soldier. You leave him behind, slowly, and as much as he is an integral part of you now, you feel like you can control that part. You are your own person now. You are Bucky Barnes. You. You you you you you. _A skinny kid with scraped knees in an alleyway, holding out his hand and asking if you've got a nickname because you "don't really look like much of a 'James'" and he's right._  

The shoes themselves are even something nice. They're all white, and dirt likes to stick to clean things; you take pride in protecting them, from the rain and city dirt. It gives you a sense of purpose, to have something to protect, even if it is just a pair of shoes. 

By the end of the month, one whole shoe and half of the other is covered in your cramped writing, scrawled tight in rainbow colors. You smile again. You're getting better at smiling. 

___________________________________________________________________________________ 

Early in the spring, the farmer's market in Bucharest is open on weekdays, too, and you decide it's about time you went grocery shopping again. You pull on the shoes, leaving them unlaced so you don't have to waste time tying them, and jog a little down the stairs of your apartment complex, backpack slung over one shoulder and a tightly rolled bundle of leu clutched in your gloved metal hand. You read on the Internet in the library that plums are good for memories, so you decide you want some plums. You make sure you have your pens and at least one notebook with you before you go, but even if you forget, you always have The Shoes. (They've become a proper noun in your mind. The Shoes. You spend more time with them than you do with any living human, after all, so why not?) 

The market is crowded, but not too bad; you pick through the fruits at a stall and smile at the man behind the stack. "Thank you," you say quietly, and smile a little. Tossing the bag in your backpack, you turn and see a man at a newspaper kiosk staring at you with a face you _really_ don't like. He leaves to go use a public telephone, and that's when you see the newspapers. 

  _UN Bombing, James Barnes_ _Suspe_ _cted_ _Culprit._ "Fuck," you whisper, in English, and run back towards the apartment, switching The Shoes out for your backup black ones, because you can't afford to lose them now. They're too valuable. 

Steve is waiting at your apartment, because of course he is. He doesn't hear you come in. He's looking at one of your notebooks. You feel the shoes burning a hole in your backpack and know in your heart that things won't be as good as they have been for a long, long time. 

"This doesn't have to end in a fight, Buck," Steve says. Always the good man, just as you were always the perfect soldier. You clench your jaw and rip the glove off your left hand, looking at him and wishing things weren't so crappy in your corner, for once. 

"It always ends in a fight." 

___________________________________________________________________________________ 

The men take away your backpack when they arrest you, and you have to resist the urge to scream, but you can't make things worse for Steve. You just _can't._ You try to tell them. "There's important stuff in there," you whisper, as the officer cuffs your hands behind your back before taking you to the high-tech crate they've got set up for you. "I need that back." 

The man laughs, a little. "Good luck with that, Soldier." 

You stiffen, and don't talk again. The ride to wherever they're taking you is silent, and you only see in your mind Steve's face as they pushed you to the ground. 

___________________________________________________________________________________ 

You come to your senses and see Steve's friend, the one with the wings, watching you with his arms crossed and a distrustful look on his face. Sam is his name, you think. Sam. You don't blame him for not trusting you. You don't trust yourself, either. Sam looks away and calls out, "Steve?" And you close your eyes. You can't face him. Not after you got shipped right back to Square One before he had seen just how far you had come. 

Steve comes into the room and you wilt a little, inside, because of the mistrust on his face. 

"Which Bucky am I talking to?" He asks, his brow doing that little furrow that you remember; that one's written on The Shoes, right above the one about his mom --  

"Your mom's name was Sarah," you say, and it almost comes out without thinking. "You used to wear newspapers in your shoes." You laugh a little at that one, at the image of _Steve, stubbornly_ _sutffing_ _the sports section into his toes, insisting that_ _i_ _t_ _was fine,_ _they didn't need to return them he'd grow into them anyway soon enough._ Steve's face changes into an expression you can't quite identify. You feel a little warm inside. 

"Can't read that in a museum," he says, barely a whisper.  

The one named Sam's eyes widen in disbelief at Steve's trust in you, and you almost smirk. 

___________________________________________________________________________________ 

Steve pulls up in the tiny car, and you sigh deeply. 

"Dude," Sam says, next to you, "that car's fucking ancient." 

You kick him in the leg and climb into the backseat. "I'm older than this car, Bird Boy. Watch your mouth." 

"It's _Falcon,_  man," he mutters, clambering into the shotgun seat next to Steve. You actually smirk this time. 

___________________________________________________________________________________ 

The woman gets out of the car, comes around to meet Steve by the trunk. She's an agent, you think. You recognize her. Pretty, but with a take-no-shit attitude a mile long, and you _know_ Steve's got a type. He smiles at her the way he smiled at Peggy, that night in the bar. Charming. Your insides are cold, and you look away.  

"Can you move your seat up?" You snark at Sam, leaning back in your chair. 

He doesn't look at you. "No." 

You shift over to behind the driver's seat and try to ignore the way your stomach fucking _drops_ when Steve kisses the girl. You smile and try to push it away. 

She managed to get your backpack back, but it doesn't change the way you hate her, despite your best intentions. You pull out The Shoes and tug them on your feet, ignoring Sam's comments and Steve's attempts to read what's written on them. 

You are quiet the rest of the drive. 

___________________________________________________________________________________ 

The jet flight to Siberia is mostly quiet. Steve's mere presence brings back so many memories ( _so many,_ and oh, how that tugs at your heartstrings) so you pull the shoes out onto your lap and scribble on them until the words begin to tangle into each other like vines.  

Steve attempts to ask about them at one point, but you hum quietly, and don’t reply. 

He sneaks over at one point, grabs a marker, and draws a perfect little star on the toe of the right shoe. Your heart bursts a little, and you focus on writing. _Sketchbooks. You always got him new ones for his birthday. He wanted to go to art school, before the war._  

 _____________________________________________________________________________________  

He claps a hand on your shoulder, just before you exit the jet. You think about hugging him. You think it might be the last time you can for a long time. It scares you, this possibility. You want to hug Steve and never let go. 

You look down at your metal arm, and decide against it. 

___________________________________________________________________________________ 

T'challa puts in the coordinates for Wakanda in the jet and sends you on your way with the promise of sanctuary and healing. "I will arrive less than an hour after you," he promises, then goes to retrieve Zemo from the snow.  

Your legs threaten to give out as you go up the ramp. Steve swoops in, fast as lightning, hooks an arm under your legs and carries you up the rest of the way. You don't have it in you to protest. 

He collapses down on a bench still holding you and presses the autopilot button, and you sigh a little and sleep in his arms the whole way to Wakanda. 

___________________________________________________________________________________ 

You sit on the bench in the medical bay and tell Steve your plan as a doctor puts a sleeve over the cleaned-up stump of your left arm. You can't read his face. 

"T'challa can build a safer chamber; a nicer one," you tell him. "He knows how to make it safer. It'll be light-years ahead of anything Hydra did. Humane." 

"I just don't know," Steve says, and shakes his head. "I don't want you to feel obligated." 

You give a little smile, and for Steve, it’s easy. "I'm doing this for everyone, Steve. That means me, too." 

He pulls you into a hug, and you wrap your arm around his waist, burying your face in his chest. Reveling in _soft_ and _warmth._  

"I'll be back before you know it, pal," you whisper. "Ain't leaving you just yet. This isn't the end of the line." 

You feel his breath catch at that one, and his arms tighten around you. 

As the cool mist comes up around you and the chamber doors close, the last thing you see is Steve's face, his expression akin to something like love. 

Your dreams are full of blue eyes and hot dogs from Coney Island, and a pair scribbled-on white shoes with a star on the right toe. 

___________________________________________________________________________________ 

They pull you out of cryo on a sun-dripped evening and Steve's face, a little bruised and a little worn, is beaming, glowing with golden happiness. Your legs are a little shaky, but you manage to stumble over to him and collapse into his arms, huffing out a breath. 

"'M'I all better now, Stevie?" You whisper, still half asleep. 

He looks down at you and smiles even wider, adjusting his arms around you. "Yeah, pal. You're all fixed up. They did it." 

You’re  _free._  

You start to laugh, a wider smile than you've felt in this century splitting your face, and rock back and forth in Steve's arms, happier than you've been since 1942. 

___________________________________________________________________________________ 

It is six months since you fought Zemo in Siberia, and Secretary Ross is called to trial for perjury and lying about the contents of the Sokovia Accords. 

He is also charged with unfair and cruel treatment of a prisoner of war. You are asked to testify. 

You get ready in Steve's room on the morning of the trial, overlooking the New York City skyline.  

(You are long since back in the United States; Zemo is in The Raf, in solitary confinement. You visited him, and laughed your ass off with Steve by your side as he screamed the words at you in vain, veins popping out in his forehead. It was one of the best days of your life.) 

You sit on the bed and pull The Shoes on with your neatly pressed suit and tie, societal norms be damned. Steve's face carries a combination of pride and something else. 

He hasn't seen Sharon in three months. She broke it off while you were in cryo, for reasons Steve refuses to tell you. 

___________________________________________________________________________________ 

The Avengers are split unevenly down the middle, more or less, but you live with Steve and Sam in a townhouse in Brooklyn. Wanda lives a block away; Clint lives across the river in Connecticut with his kids; Scott has an apartment in Queens and flies to San Francisco twice a month to see his daughter, courtesy of T'challa.  

(T'challa has given you so much. You approached him once and tried to thank him, but he stopped you  and simply said, "For my father. For victims." He paused. "And for friends.") 

Steve and Sam run every morning. The coffee shop down the street makes the best lattes. You buy a new pair of white shoes and a pack of rainbow Sharpies. 

___________________________________________________________________________________ 

You sit out on the stoop one sunny day in June and read everything off the first pair of shoes. 

 _Steve_ _drew_ _portraits of you in his sketchbooks. You taught Steve to dance in your_ _living_ _room, and the next day he managed to get a date with a girl in his art class. Steve wore his sleeves rolled up and always had_ _bruised_ _knuckles. You went to Coney Island and made Steve go on the Cyclone, and he threw up afterwards. Steve's nose always got red in the cold, and_ _snow_ _collected in his hair..._  

It hits you like a punch from Iron Man to the gut, and you fumble for a pen and write on the left toe.  

 _You loved Steve._  

You wrinkle your brow, and you think; 

You think about the helicarrier, and the end of the line. You think about the apartment in Bucharest, and his arms around you and his shield protecting you. You think about his face when you remember things, and his face when you came out of cryo in Wakanda, and the way he looks at you sometimes when he thinks you're not looking; 

You grab the marker and write on the right toe, next to the star he drew, _You love Steve._  

Because you do, and it really is that simple. 

You pick up the shoes and race back inside. 

___________________________________________________________________________________ 

Sam is sitting at the kitchen table, scrolling on his phone when you storm in, tugging on The Shoes and a clean shirt. "Sam, where’s Steve?" 

Sam looks up. "He went for a walk in Central Park. Said it was a nice day. Why?" 

You blush and fumble with the laces. "I hafta, uh, tell him. Stuff. Fuck." 

He gives you a knowing smirk. "Finally figured it out, haven't you?" 

You huff. "I hate you, Wilson." 

He smiles, gets up and stretches, then claps you on the shoulder. "I'm happy for you. You both deserve it. Now go get your boy." 

___________________________________________________________________________________ 

You race through Central Park for a good twenty minutes before you spot Steve, walking by a fountain in a surprisingly un-crowded section of the park. He's wearing a loose tee shirt and khaki shorts, and his blonde hair is glowing in the midday summer sun.  

"Steve!" You call out, and race towards him. He whirls around, looking delighted. 

"Buck!" He exclaims as you skid to a stop in front of him "What're you doing here? You look tired. You been running around?" 

You nod. Swallow. "Been looking for you, Stevie." 

He wrinkles his brow. "What is it? Something happen?" 

You shake your head. "I, uh. Um. Gotta talk to you. About. About something." 

He smiles, small, but worried, and _God,_ every fiber of you wants to make sure he's never worried. About you. About anything.  

"I, see, Stevie, I was reading the, um, the Shoes, today, and I, uh I kinda realized, um. Something. I needed to tell you... I remembered. Something." You're looking at your shoes. At the star on the toe. "I just, I, you see, the thing is, Stevie, I..." 

You look up, and Steve looks like he's on the cusp of a smile; fearful, like he's not daring to hope. 

You look down at what's written on your toe, and then back at Steve, and say, "Aw, fuck it," and drag him in by the collar of his shirt and kiss him hard. 

His eyelashes flutter against your cheekbones, wide and surprised, and then in an instant he's kissing you back, leaning into you, strong arms moving to wrap around your waist loosely, and it's _perfect._  Kissing Steve is warmer than any June day New York could ever conjure; it's more real than any memory written on your shoes; it's familiar and natural and _real._ You break apart for a second, resting your foreheads together, and you laugh, giggling like teenagers as you look at each other. You bring your hands up and frame his face, and he's _glowing._   

"My Stevie." You whisper.  

He gives a little nod. "All yours," he whispers back, and he wraps his arms further around your waist and brings you in for another kiss. 

"Til the end of the line," you tell him, words ghosting over his lips, and if it's just a little cheesy, the way that line brings you full circle, then neither of you seems to mind. 

___________________________________________________________________________________ 

It is almost two years and six months since that day in Bucharest when you saw those shoes in the shop window, and for what may be the only time in your life, you praise the creators of modern fashion as you purchase a pair in sky blue, Steve's hand tangled in yours and a Sharpie in your back pocket.  

___________________________________________________________________________________

 _End_  

 

**Author's Note:**

> So, that was fun to write. *whew*
> 
> Notes: I did take the liberty of adding/editing scenes to CACW. So it's sort of movie compliant? But also not really.
> 
> Screech about this with me in the comments, if you will? And if you like this, please provide kudos. I live off of kudos. 
> 
> Thanks for reading! Follow me on my tumblr: darlingbvckyy


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